


Always and Never

by theheartofadetective



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartofadetective/pseuds/theheartofadetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is trying her best to put together a broken Sherlock after he's forced to kill himself and lay low, but that doesn't mean she isn't falling apart trying to do it. She'll have to keep herself composed to push him through this mess until he can return to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Molly sighed before she walked into the door, grasping the handle and trying to prepare a smile on her face. The burden on Sherlock was much greater than the one on her; she was going to help him through this. She's always been selfless Molly Hooper, so she shouldn't feel this any different.

She hung up her coat as she came through the door, watching Sherlock as he completely disregarded her entrance. He was in the same clothes he had been in for a few days now with his eyes closed and hands steepled together, pressed against his mouth. His feet were propped up on the coffee table.

Next to him on the table was a mug lying on its side with a small amount of black, stale coffee spilled across the table top. Within the dark, sludgy liquid was at least a pack's worth of extinguished cigarette butts.

Before, he had nothing to do, nowhere to go- he had been in hiding when they were at Molly's flat, and now Mycroft had relocated Sherlock and Molly to a flat in a small villa in southern France for the time being. It was too dangerous for him to stay in England for as long as he did, and when Mycroft finally knew, he decided it best to move them out of the country.

Mycroft had noted the changes with Sherlock and did not trust him to stay out of trouble. He had requested Molly to go with Sherlock, and since Sherlock had made no opposition, Molly agreed. Mycroft told them they were to act normal, act as a domestic as possible as to not attract attention, but Sherlock was just as void of society as he had been in London; anonymity would not be a problem at the moment. Mycroft would be spending his time with his resources tracking down Moriarty's network, attempting to eliminate them so Sherlock could safely return to London.

Sherlock refused to leave the flat even though he could now. He had no reason to, and he didn't feel it important. There would be no cases, no Baker Street,  _no John._

No, John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, was still grieving over the man that had jumped from the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital that dreaded day, believing that Sherlock was deceased; his body buried beneath the soil. He did not have the faintest idea that the grave he visited all the time was void of any corpse, but that didn't mean that Sherlock did not feel buried there anyway.

Sherlock was grieving as much as John, but grieving over the death of himself. It was not for the reasons that people normally mourn over death. He grieved because he was beaten, and he was lost. He had assured himself that he was a step ahead of Jim Moriarty, but in the end he only discovered he was two steps behind. Now he was paying the price for it; there was no other way to save the few he cared about. So with Molly's assistance, Sherlock faked his death and removed himself entirely from everything. Molly was sure now that he wasn't only detached physically.

Everything had changed; well, mostly everything. When he broke what seemed to be his endless silence, his words were either mean and crass, or flat and void of anything. He made sure to take whatever he was feeling, or hiding, out on the one person trying to piece him back together. Molly took his words as lightly as she could manage, remembering what he'd been through. She understood irrevocably that he was at his worst; he had nothing left, and she was his only hope.

His behaviour had been like this for weeks, and so scene before her was not surprising. She had been more concerned with the way he looked. There were dark, heavy circles under his eyes even though he had all the time in the world to sleep; most of his nights were spent wide awake, brooding. And now his already slim body had continued to thin, as malnourishment was evident; he ate rarely, and Molly had to make a fuss to even get him to. He was torturing himself, letting himself fall apart piece by piece and Molly was unsure of what to do.

"Sherlock," Molly said with a heavy sigh, but he said nothing, his eyes closed and body still. She cleaned up the mess and tossed it into the rubbish bin without complaint. When she came back out of the kitchen, she replaced the empty spot on the coffee table with a fresh mug of coffee; black, two sugars just as he liked it.

Molly set her own coffee down on the table and curled up in the chair next to sofa Sherlock sat on. She held her legs against her chest and rested her chin upon her knees, watching him. She wanted something; she needed something- a movement, a noise, something.

"You've been staring for a while now," he said before she had a chance to speak, finally opening his eyes and looking to her.

"Well, I just- I wanted to make sure you were okay…" she trailed off nervously.

"A dead man does not need mothering, Molly," he replied brashly, pushing her away as he usually did, keeping his façade stern and annoyed.

She kept her eyes down now, hugging her knees tighter to her chest and she let out a soft sigh. It was killing her inside to see this, and she thought she was doing well at hiding it, but his deducing skills had not faltered at all. His eyes immediately were scanning her when he heard the sighing breath escape her lips but said nothing.

She fidgeted in her seat as he picked her apart, concern evidently washed over her face. He became lost in the sad way that she looked, but also the strain in her eyes as she tried as well as she could to keep it from him.  _Did she think he was stupid?_

No, of course she didn't, but he seemed to think so; no one plays games with Sherlock Holmes. He thought harshly, disregarding the adverse feeling of responsibility for the almost-hidden grave look on her face; he denied that she was that way because of him. It was not his fault, it was  _her_  problem if she was going to be so emotionally invested in his physical and mental health.

It was not long before Molly became uncomfortable enough and stood up from her seat, not looking at him as she spoke. "Is there anything you need before I go to bed?"

He went to reply, but she knew the only thing that he was going to ask for. He closed his mouth as he watched her walk over to the bag and pull out a box. She knew his routine, and it made Sherlock feel she had thought him predictable, taking care of him in the only way she knew how; how  _irritating_ of her.

She walked over and handed the box to him. "These will- they'll have to do. The neighbours have been complaining, they know you're smoking. They told us that this was a smoke-free flat complex; I was spoken to today."

He looked down at the box of nicotine patches dissatisfied, giving a sniff of derision but said nothing. He set them down on the table, his eyes heavy as he was fighting off sleep. Molly knew he wouldn't though; she knew he would force himself awake for another day before his body couldn't physically fight it off anymore.

"Sherlock?" she said softly as he looked over to her.

"If I make you something, will you eat?"

"I don't need anything."

"Please? You need to eat  _something,_ " she pleaded, her eyes begging even more than her voice.

"Fine," he replied abruptly.

She gave a wide smile, scurrying into the kitchen to make him something as he watched her now with curiosity. Why did she even care? It didn't directly affect her. He knew why, he knew she cared, but it so pointless. Why bother?

He knew she was there because Mycroft had asked her and Sherlock had not refused the idea; he didn't because he  _did_  want her there. She was the one person in the world besides his brother, ( _because he even counted_  he thought sarcastically), and he needed that contact. He told himself that it was the more convenient option, that he would not have a necessity to leave the flat, and so it was 'justified.'

Ever since he began living with John he had enjoyed some minimal human contact, whether to talk out loud, or not feel as though he had to live a solitary life, and this was more comfortable for him. Though, since his fall he didn't speak much, and he did not embrace Molly when she would sit quietly in a room with him. He secretly enjoyed it though, having at least that something. It helped him cling to the edges of sanity he needed to surface himself back to reality. He wasn't sure how he would cope if she wasn't there.

She made something simple, something quick before he had changed his mind. She placed a cup of tea, some scrambled eggs, and a muffin in front of him; she hoped to God he would eat all of it because she didn't know when she would get another opportunity.

She sat next to him at the table with the newspaper, trying her best to understand the minimal amounts of French she could decipher; it was becoming easier. She was better at speaking in small conversation then she was at reading it. She scrunched her nose as she was trying to make out the words, sneaking a few glances at Sherlock as he ate slowly.

Her phone was next to her, and she glanced at it as she heard the vibrations against the table. She stiffened as she realised it was Mycroft, standing up from the table and walking into the next room as she opened the call.

His utensils were sitting against the side of the plate, food already forgotten. Sherlock knew it was Mycroft, he knew Mycroft would be asking how he was, and the worst part was that he knew that Molly would be told how John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade were. He couldn't bear to think about it, but he did so anyway. All he wanted was to be able to get this solved, but his brother was taking an awfully long time; it gnawed at him.

"Hello?" Molly answered faintly. Sherlock took in the patter of her light feet pacing across the room, her voice nervous as she awaited Mycroft's questions and answers.

"He's still not coping well yet?" he heard her ask, knowing from her common mannerisms that she was biting her bottom lip even though he couldn't see her. "Oh, really? He's met someone then? So is he doing at least a bit better? That's great."

Then he knew the conversation was about him: "No, he hasn't slept; he'll be awake for another day." She had spent enough time with him now to know how long he could go without sleep; she had really spent enough time to know a lot about him, at least in the manner of his current state. "I've just made him some food, but I doubt he'll finish it now."

Sherlock looked down at his food with disgust now; Molly's earlier pleas were not enough to make him want to finish it. He rationalised that he ate enough that made him fine for minimal functioning.

He pushed his plate aside and grabbed the laptop, opening it up. He was still convinced that he would be able to find something before Mycroft's men could, and he was determined that when he did, he would be able to solve this. He lost himself in his research, Molly's words fading into the background as he began the preliminary cataloguing within his mind palace. He took in every word that his eyes skimmed across, later to be analysed and eradicated if the information was decidedly insignificant.

Molly came back into the kitchen a short while after he had sunk into his research, glancing at his plate, the small smile on her lips pressing into a flat line. "You're done with this now then?"

He waved his hand, but said nothing. "Well," she started, suppressing a sigh and letting a smile back on her face. "It's good that you've eaten something at least." She gave his shoulder a light squeeze without even thinking about it, the pads of her fingers delicate against the fabric of his shirt.

He glanced over at Molly's hand indecisively and then looked up to her face; well, this was new. Not unpleasant, but new.

She pulled her hand away as she noticed him stiffen and look at her hand. She couldn't tell the expression on his face as he was deciding if it was pleasant or not. "Sorry," she said, sounding as though she had offended him.

"It's fine, Molly," he said, ignoring her now, his gaze intent on the laptop again.

"Anything new?" she asked after a quiet moment, trying to sound hopeful.

"Maybe," he replied, not looking away from the laptop, continuing to scroll.

She took his utensils into the kitchen and washed them off, not bothering with the dishwasher. This was quicker and kept her busy at the least. She would be there as long as Sherlock needed her, but there were only so many minimal tasks she could preoccupy herself with. She was bored, and she missed Bart's so much. It was what she loved; she hoped she had always made a difference, helped people get justice where justice was needed. But right now she was helping Sherlock, someone close to her, someone she loved, and that was probably even more fulfilling if it was going to make a difference for him. She hoped so, because he needed it.  _She_  needed to believe it.

Molly was modest with most things, but she didn't deny it when Sherlock said she was one of the best in her field. She had accomplished more in her small amount of years with her career than a lot of the staff senior to her did. Her job would be there when she returned though; Mycroft had ensured that when he asked her to go.

She spun around from the kitchen counter and was leaning against it, a new plan in her mind.

"So," she began, hoping she would be able to convince him, but she knew she was pushing her luck. "What would you say about going out and doing something tomorrow? Get some fresh air- go to the shops or something?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, still not looking to her.

"Really?" Molly perked up, "you'll go?"

"I've just agreed, yes? I need to try and find someone anyway."

"Oh?" Molly asked quizzically.

"May be connected to the network," uninterested in the conversation now.

"Ah," Molly said, not knowing how else to respond. "Something safe I hope?"

"Molly, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

She said nothing else, but was pleased anyway. Tomorrow they would go out and Sherlock would finally get some fresh air in his lungs.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly was walking with a bounce in her step, adoring all the window shops as she went along. Sherlock followed slightly behind her as he noticed her mood was different than it had been. He watched as her eyes lit up when she saw things that she liked, almost like that of a child, and a small smile twitched across his face. He kept his hands buried in his coat pocket as he continued a few paces behind her.

Frankly, Molly was proud of herself for getting Sherlock out and about, even if he had other incentive.  _It was still something,_  she told herself;  _maybe he was improving_. He had even eaten a little bit last night. Maybe as they were getting closer to solving this, Sherlock would give away from this broken façade, and maybe her efforts  _were_ making a difference.

Molly was glancing in the window of a book shop now, her eye adoringly on one of her favourite books, letting the story unfold in her hand again; she had read it so many times through that she would be able to understand it still in French- maybe it would help improve her reading skills.

Her contemplation was disrupted by a man- around their age, attractive, and speaking to her in French. She was immediately uncomfortable as she always was when people began talking to her, afraid of embarrassing herself. She was in France, she should be expected to be respectful and speak their language, or at least try her best.

Sherlock knew the language much better than she did, but he had fallen a bit behind. He caught the end of one sentence and the beginning of the other, deducing immediately that he was flirting with her. Molly's face changed as she blushed when she realised, her speech becoming increasingly nervous; she was especially self-conscious now as she was afraid to say the wrong thing in a language she was still trying to learn. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the wrong idea.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked up to the two of them, placing himself close against Molly, instinctively putting a hand on the small of her back as he gave the man an unhappy look. Molly tried to suppress a squeak as she could feel him warm against her and pressed herself back into his hand; she felt silly that she was anxious for that small touch.

It didn't take long before the man had assumed that they were together and scurried away at Molly's "unavailability" looking disappointed.

She kept herself against Sherlock even after the man walked away, his hand still warm against her. He seemed lost in thought, but comfortable with the contact she wanted, that he wanted but would not admit. Her cheeks were turned a slight pink as she realised that she still lingered. "Thanks," she smiled genuinely, disconnecting him from his mind palace. She turned back to the window of the book shop, staring at the rest of the novels on display. His fingers tingled and he clenched his hand as he stood in his same spot, watching her momentarily enjoy herself.

She suddenly felt her mobile vibrating as she picked it up to glance at the screen, and he could see a nervous frown on her face. She awkwardly sped up her pace to a half run while trying to get away from the noise. He saw her answer before reaching her, and she looked concerned as he walked over to see who it was; he was pretty sure he already knew.

"I'm uhm- no, I'm good. I'm great. Doing better than last time we spoke." She put on a smile as if the person on the other line was looking at her.

"Really, you have? That's wonderful! What's her name?" Molly asked, pretending she didn't already know from Mycroft. She was trying to steer away from the subject of Sherlock as she continued speaking to the man.

"Well, I'm so glad that you have found someone, John," she smiled, not realising that Sherlock was next to her, her back facing him.

John was clearly asking why she wasn't in London now, hearing from Lestrade that he hadn't seen her there lately.

"Oh, uhm well…" Sherlock froze as she hesitated to find an easy answer. "I'm temping in France. I thought it would be good to explore my horizons and they needed someone to fill this spot temporarily. When I come back to London I'll be back at Bart's; not sure when though, it could be a while."

They both sighed as she saved herself and John gave in to her story.

Her face changed into a strained expression as she listened on the other line now. "No, no, I'm quite alright, its well- easier now," she said, trying to hide the grimace as she turned so her profile faced him. She was lying through her teeth though; nothing was any easier for her than it had been in London. It may not have been for the reasons that John thought, but things had certainly been difficult for her. "I think this positioned popped up at the right time; get my mind to focus on other things."

But Molly's eyes glassed over now as John was replying to her. "No, John, it's alright," she choked, putting her hand over her mouth to cover up a sob. "You'll get through it; you just need to give it some more time." Molly was in pain from the sound of John's voice; he was still so broken. He was doing better, but still a damaged man. "I know, I know, I miss him too, I'm sure everyone does, but, you did what you could."

Sherlock was closer to her now and could hear one choked out sob on the other line from John and Molly tried her best to not let one escape from her own lips. "I'll talk to you later," she finally gasped, her voice shaky. "But if you need to talk- don't hesitate to call me, okay?" And with that goodbyes were said and the call was ended.

She closed her eyes to try and rid them of any moisture and turned to Sherlock, giving him a half-hearted smile as she put the mobile back in her pocket. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, time dragging on its own accord. She could see the sad look on his face when he thought she was still looking down.

She fiddled with her fingers for a second before she looked back up. "We should get back to looking at the shops, ta?" she said, turning forward before he could respond and began to walk along the sidewalk.

She was trying so hard to keep it light and happy; she wanted nothing more than to take Sherlock's mind off of everything today. She knew though, that Sherlock was thinking about it now, and she was too. This wasn't a breeze for her as much as it wasn't for him; she was loyal and dedicated to what was going on, but it pained her to have this immense guilt of lying to everyone, to John. She didn't feel that it was fair to have to lie to him, but she understood why. Sherlock was much closer to John than her, he should be in these shoes right now; maybe Sherlock wouldn't be so unhappy if John were here instead. She still didn't believe that she counted, or that she mattered. She was conveniently able to help him and in on the information, and Moriarty saw her as she was to him, which wasn't much really. At least, this is what she told herself to get by, to try and shake her feelings for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked to her before she turned away and there it was; the demeanour Molly had been holding day after day in the flat was now returning to her face. She did her best to hide it, but he could see the guilt seeping from her. He was tearing her apart as much as he was torn, dragging her down with him, and he saw it happening little by little. Why hadn't she left by now? She should have, Sherlock was hopeless. He shouldn't need someone there, he shouldn't be weak. Why was this so hard to push through, why couldn't she leave him alone and make everything better for herself again? Mycroft never should have let this responsibility fall on her; Sherlock should never have let it happen.

"Molly," Sherlock began before they reached the street again and she stopped to look up at him. "I need to take care of something."

She nodded. "Alright, uhm-" she bit her lip. "Did you want me to go with you?"

"No, I'm fine by myself," he said, looking away from her and walked down the alley before she could say anything else. He was fine, he could handle himself; he wanted to tell himself that the last thing he needed was her when that was the farthest thing from the truth.

* * *

The person he sought out did not help him as he knew he wouldn't, but he was desperate. He thought maybe someone would slip; not everyone could retain Moriarty's perfection and meticulousness, and he thought maybe he could catch them in it. The only thing he could confirm now that Moran  _was_  still in the south of France, but he still didn't know exactly where. He tightened his scarf and moved swiftly, turning the corner of one alley to spot something that seemed familiar to him. His arm tingled at the sensation he immediately craved as his mouth practically watered.

He had never been active in this  _side_  of France, but he knew what this was, and desperately he walked up the man at the far end of the alley, pulling euros out of his pocket without a word. The man handed him what he was seeking, and Sherlock slipped it deep into his coat pocket, clenching the item hidden within. He ominously escaped back into the alley, trying to make his stride relaxed as he made his way back to the street where Molly still was.

As he rounded another corner he saw her sitting outside of a small café, a coffee in her hand as she thumbed through the newspaper, keeping to herself; she looked anxious now. Her day had been changed as soon as her phone had went off, and she was especially apprehensive because she knew it was upsetting him, and that he would never admit it- let alone talk about it.

She looked up and saw him, letting a smile flash across her face as she stood now, walking over to him.

She noticed that he looked a bit odd though, nervous like she normally was- that was definitely un-Sherlock. "Everything okay?" she asked innocently.

"Fine," he said, and then quickly began again. "Are you done here?"

"Yeah, if you wanted to get back… are you sure you're alright?"

"I've just said that."

She didn't reply, but followed him back to the flat. She knew something seemed off, weird. They had done really well until she had received John's call. Molly hoped that maybe Sherlock would brush that interruption to their day and continue his streak of doing a bit better; she held onto that thread because there was nothing else she could do. She had no idea of the racing; confused thoughts that flittered through his mind much quicker than they usually did, whirling him into a sense of wonder, confusion, and  _yearning._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stared at the needle on the dresser as he paced back and forth, looking to it every fifteen seconds. He had to make a decision now; his thoughts were pounding too quickly to calculate how much time he would have before Molly returned, but he thought he would have enough time to recover before she had noticed what he'd done.

He couldn't  _stop_  thinking though. There was so much guilt that he had rarely experienced before. All he could think about was the people who he had died for, and how he knew John still wasn't over it (he didn't understand why- people die, you can't control that, so why dwell?). He had heard in a previous conversation, when Molly was sitting too close, about how Mrs Hudson had never been the same after the funeral; it was like a mother losing her child. There was also Moran; he knew the name, but had no leads to finding him. There had to be something. He figured that out before Mycroft did, but it was meaningless unless someone could determine the next step. He had to be absolutely sure- precise in his findings- or any opportunity of getting close to the situation could be jeopardized.

And then there was Molly; Sherlock could hear and deduce about everyone's grief, but he could  _observe_ what this situation was doing to her. She was wasting her life away taking care of him, trying to hold him together. He didn't understand; what had he done to make certain people so loyal to him, to make Molly so loyal to him? She had risked everything, and given up even more coming here with him. He could tell she was different, could tell she was not the same bubbly person, but she was trying her best to be positive for the both of them. But why? He still couldn't understand it; as many times as he searched the catalogues in his mind palace he just couldn't find an answer. And why did he feel he needed her there- he was showing that he was weak as much as he wouldn't talk about it, as much as he pushed her away and hurt her feelings. He  _always_  hurt her and she brushed it aside as to not take it to heart when he  _was_  intentionally attacking her. To get a rise, to take it out on someone else beside himself- it was disgusting, pathetic. She didn't deserve any of this.

But he didn't know what to do. He didn't want her to leave; he wasn't going to ask her. He just wanted to stop thinking, his mind never rested; he couldn't even sleep because of it. His brilliant mind always betrayed him in that way.

As he placed the needle in his arm, he knew, clinically, it had been above the average dose, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he felt the release of his body and his mind slowing. He sank down onto the floor of the bathroom and let the back of his head press against the wall, enjoying the silent bliss.

 _Just this once_  he had told himself. He could get away with it once without her noticing.

* * *

Molly pulled the euros out of her pocket and handed them to the cashier, picking up the rest of her bags as she exited the store.

She was hoping that since she had gotten him out of the flat that he would be feeling better. Maybe she could get him to eat again, and to sleep. She had to try no matter what kind of mood he was in. John's call had produced a setback, but maybe she could get him to stray away from the haunting thought.

She was going to make him a nice dinner- he should eat well if he wasn't going to eat much. She hoped maybe things were starting to look on the good side- maybe.

As she moved along the sidewalk it was beginning to get dark. She checked her watch as she walked along, the bags feeling heavy in her hands, the handles making hard indents against her delicate fingers. Her brisk walk was stopped by the grabbing of the collar of her coat. The seam ripped as she was dragged around a dark corner. Her head and her elbows harshly hit the wall as she supressed a groan.

She began to gasp when a hand covered her mouth, "tais-toi!" he hissed.

She did as he said reluctantly, knowing that he was telling her to shut her mouth and remained silent. She made sure to in concern for her own safety when she saw a knife gripped tightly into his other hand.

She stood there paralysed, unable to move or tear her eyes away as he rummaged his hand away from her mouth and buried his hands into her coat pockets, making sure to keep his eyes on her face. This was obviously not his first time mugging someone as he was confident and persistent, never faltering.

In a matter of seconds, which to her felt like an eternity, the man was shoved off of her and he fell to the ground, the knife escaping his hand.

The man picked up the knife and held it out in front of him. "Get out of here. You piece of rubbish, do you get off harassing poor girls? Find another way to make your own money," he shouted.

The attacker fled quickly as Molly watched him until he was out of sight. She could not tear her eyes away until the man spoke to her. "Are you alright, miss?"

She turned her head and immediately recognised him; it was the man that had been flirting with her near the shopping centre. She relaxed and pulled away from the wall, looking to him. "Yes, I-I'm okay," and then nervously but gratefully added, "thank you so much, I don't know what I would've done." She rubbed the back of her head where it had hit the wall. She felt a bit dizzy, but it was manageable. No blood, but there would surely be bruising.

He helped her pick up the grocery bags that had spilled out onto the ground and she stood up to leave. "Thank you again," she nodded.

"Let me pay for a cab ride home for you," he offered.

"Oh no," she said blushing, "no, I couldn't impose. I'm only a few blocks from here, but I uhm, I really need to get back. I wish there was something I could give you as a thank you, I really owe you…"

"I don't suppose I could convince you to get a coffee with me?"

"I-" she said, looking to the ground, "now is… not a good time in my life. I truly am sorry. I have someone to look after…" she wasn't lying.

"A troubling time," he said, putting a hand on her arm, his grip a bit tight, and it startled Molly.

She flinched at his touch and looked at him sceptically, a bit overwhelmed, but stood where she was. He had just saved her life, his touch had definitely seemed forceful but his face seemed calm and serene and he let go immediately at her discomfort.

Molly was conflicted in everything that had happened and she became increasingly nervous now; she needed to get away. "A very… stressful one," she said quickly, her voice tense and her eyes darting around. She gave a half-hearted smile. "But really, I have to get back. Uhm, thank you again…"

"Have a good night, miss," he said, an impish smile on his face as he turned around and walked in the other direction.

Her hands trembled as she walked back towards the flat, almost dropping the bags in her hands. She was still quite shaken up from what happened, but she was still grateful for the… peculiar man that had saved her. Odd or not, she had needed someone there.

She chased the thoughts away, realising that she needed to focus on Sherlock now. She had been gone for longer than she expected since the interruption of her quick errand and she needed to get home. She wasn't going to tell Sherlock, but of course he would notice. Of all people the look on her face would just tell him, but the new rip in the collar of her coat would definitely confirm to anyone something bad had happened.

* * *

She walked into the flat with bags in her hand and all was quiet.

She placed the bags on the counter, throwing off her coat as she walked around to try and find him. Maybe if she abandoned the coat somewhere unnoticed, he wouldn't realise that something had happened.

She weaved her way through the rooms, her brow furrowing now. She finally looked to the bathroom to see the door cracked open and it looked like Sherlock was sitting on the bathroom floor, his legs and feet in her view.

She pushed the door open a bit more to see Sherlock barely conscious, a needle in his arm. He was completely out of it, and he was showing all the signs of what she prayed did not match what she was looking at. She knew his history of heroin, but surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to do it? To take more than he should have?

"Sherlock?" she said frantically as she immediately kneeled beside him. She pulled the needle out of his arm and threw it in the trash, her hands now scanning his pulse, very weak. His breathing was shallow and lips tinted blue. She grabbed his chin lightly and pulled his mouth open- tongue discoloration; there was nothing that could make her more sure than the combination of all of these things. She swallowed hard as tears were immediately streaming down her cheeks. She turned on the water in the shower, trying her best to drag him into the tub as fast as she could.

"You can't do this to me," she pleaded, voice shaking, knowing that he couldn't hear her, and even if he could he was not conscious enough to comprehend it. "Why? Why would you do this? I can't lose you. You have so much to go back to. People need you, Sherlock,  _I_ need you."

She didn't know how long she was yelling to him before he began to stir on and off, the water getting him to wake more frequently. She often had to open and close her own eyes, refocus herself, to fight off the dizziness from her head meeting the wall before. That barely mattered anymore though; it was pushed out of her mind, her head racing, pleading with a constriction in her chest. She needed him to be okay.

She had been sitting in the shower for forty minutes now, petting his hair away from his face and shaking as the water had run cold long before. The water continued running over Sherlock as she hoped to keep him out of a comatose state. He had vaguely been in and out of consciousness, but she was confident that this time he wouldn't sink back into oblivion.

"Tell me that you're okay," she said softly, her hands cupping either side of his face as his head was in her lap. He stared up at her, his vision still a bit blurry, but clearing. His throat was dry and he could not find the words as he stared up at her face.

"Tell me," she pleaded, her breathing ragged now, still sobbing. " _Sherlock_ ," she cracked. She knew he was okay now, she knew, especially with her medical training that he would physically and mentally be okay by the signs he was showing, but she was in hysterics; she needed to  _hear_  it from him.

He managed a nod as he continued to look at up at her. Even in this fragile state he was deducing everything about her reactions, the high anxiety clearly evident. Everyone claimed him to be so selfish, but at this time he couldn't find himself to care at all about his own well-being, but he needed to for her. So for a single moment, for her, he ignored what he wanted to say, he ignored trying to avoid the fact that yes, he was in a vulnerable position.

"Yes," his voice croaked out as he started coughing, "I'm alright."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes as Molly tried to control her crying, and now silent tears were falling down her cheeks, masked by the water pouring down on them. He watched her still as she slowly reached up and turned the water off never removing her eyes from his face.

Her crying subsided as she stared down at him, her eyes puffy and red. Never before had he seen someone look so furious and so sad all at once. She was trying to hold it in now, and she would hold it in as long as she could. This was yet another time when the stress was trying so hard to push her down by her shoulders and drown her, but she had to surface herself.

She wanted to scream until her voice was hoarse; she wanted to tell him what a moron he was, about how if this was how it was going to be, than she couldn't help him, that it was out of her control. She would lose it though. Molly tried her best to control herself, clutching the lapels of his partially opened, soaking wet shirt. "Promise me."

He looked at her. " _Never again,_ me."

He sat there for a minute, examining her wild eyes. "I swear," he said quietly.

She kissed his cheek as her thumb gently caressed the other for a minute before dropping her hand and also her eyes, looking anywhere but at him, completely silent.

It took a while, but she finally got him to sit up in the tub and she maneuvered herself out, noticing his hard shivering as she handed him a towel, trying as much as she could to control her own shaking; it was both out of anxiousness and the cold wetness against her skin.

She came back into the bathroom with clean, dry clothes for Sherlock and put them in his reach, walking to her bedroom to change herself and then took a spot in the sitting room.

After a while, Sherlock finally came out and sat down on the sofa. She had to help him get to that point; his body was so weak and tired. They said nothing to each other though. She couldn't say anything to him because she would crumble and he needed rest. Even if Sherlock didn't, he had no idea what to say to her.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke the next morning, his head pounding as soon as his lids rose. His head swam with thoughts of the previous night, thinking over what he had done. Like the typical addict he was, thinking that Molly was stupid and would not realise what happened- he was a _fool_. Of course he knew she would notice; it was that he hadn’t been able to find any notion to care- well, before he didn’t. Now was a different story.

Sherlock blinked blankly as he kept remembering when his vision cleared, feebly lying in the tub, and his head in Molly’s lap. The look on her face made him want to claw his eyes out; the look of anger, of sadness, and most of all of disappointment. She was crying, although she had been self-consciously trying to get herself to stop- but the thought of Sherlock lost, gone, she couldn’t bear it; it was a story she told him with her terrified eyes.

He glanced over the top of the sofa to see Molly sitting at the table in the kitchen, gripping the paper tightly, her nervous demeanour so obviously visible. A hard line creased her brow and her eyes narrowed as she tried to focus on the words; it was hard enough for her to read French, there was no way after all of this that she was able to take in the information. She simply read the same sentence over and over, her worry ruminating within her. Her mind was drained, but her body jolted; she had not slept that night.

Every time her mind entertained the thought of sleep her chest tightened. She had always trusted Sherlock with everything, but there would be so much hesitation now, just to make sure that he wouldn’t do something so reckless. She needed to be strong; she needed to be there for Sherlock at every moment even though her tired, glassy eyes and the constantly nervous trembling of her hands screamed that she would break if anything else were to happen.

The loud creak of the sofa caught her attention, realising he was awake. She looked up immediately to assure herself that he was okay. Of course he was, she had been up all night watching over him; irrational fear is what Sherlock would call it, but Molly saw it as protective.

Sherlock walked over to the table and sat in the chair across from her, grabbing the coffee she had set on the table, inevitably knowing he would need it. Molly wiggled in her seat as he looked at her, hauntings of the previous night flashing across her eyes as she set down the paper; she gave up, she wasn’t reading at all, and he had probably already noticed that.

As he looked her over, he made note of the darkened circles under her eyes, clearly no sleep. And from there his mind trailed an imaginary line to her hands, watching the slight shake next to a few mugs. She had switched between coffee and decaffeinated tea, trying to limit her caffeine intake, but had given up soon after and went back to coffee. She was drinking it black now- not her usual sweetness of cream as to keep it strong, keep her aware. She was weary, tense, she couldn’t push the thoughts from her mind and it was clear to him.

She wasn’t ready to be near him or to even talk to him, but the former was a necessity; how could she protect him if she could not be in the same room as him? The talking part was manageable though as he preferred to be quiet. He was always annoyed when she opened her mouth, even when she had intents of somehow helping him, soothing him. Her efforts were apparently meaningless; it seemed to her they were since the events of last night screamed something strong.

But as his eyes scanned her over, stripped her down to everything she was thinking about, what she had done the previous night to keep her busy as she monitored him, the chair behind him caught his eye. He narrowed them as he saw a ripped seam in her coat hung over her seat, and tried to decipher what had happened. The tear was not there before she had left the flat the day before.

As he stared intensely at the coat he heard a small gasp escape her lips. She had grown uncomfortable quickly and to try and shed the awkward silence, she had raised her hand up to scratch the back of her head. She winced as the pads of her fingers grazed the still forming bruise she had neglected to remember. The remembrance of the events before she had even returned home surfaced and she winced further, knowing that Sherlock had already deduced what had happened. She knew when she opened her eyes that there would be questions to answer.

He was standing over her by the time she opened her eyes, hovering and examining her head where an obvious bump was raised. He stared blankly, his voice quiet, “Molly, what-”

“It’s nothing” she broke off immediately, “I’m fine.”

“Obviously not,” he replied after a long moment. His fingers clutched at the tear in her coat as he rested his hand on the chair behind her. He leaned over, trying to deduce it out, but there wasn’t enough to figure all of it out.

Her eyes dropped to the table as she curved her body away from him. She was pissed about last night and she had to hold it in like everything else. She wasn’t worried about what had happened to her; the worst was some bruising, nothing had been taken. She was _fine_ as she supposedly had been all this time, and she would continue to say that she was.   

She was also completely ignoring the fact that she was attacked, and denying that it had any impact on her mental well-being, which it clearly did. Why was she being so stubborn? Why was she being… like him? He deserved every bit of this though; for being so weak, so pathetic, but this was concern for her. He wanted to make sure that she was okay.

He noticed her hesitation and took a slight step back, seeing the way her body language changed. She almost looked scared, but he didn’t understand why. He knew she was angry, knew she was morose, but there was no reason to be afraid. He thought maybe she couldn’t look at him, wouldn’t meet his eyes because she had expected better of him, but the overwhelming feeling was of failure.

Finally standing from her chair with her coffee in hand, she gave a weak smile as she kept her eyes away from him. “I’m not hurt, Sherlock, it’s not important,” she whispered, making great effort for her voice to not sound upset and harsh. He looked down to where her eyes were set as she hesitated, noticing the bruise forming on his arm from where the needle had punctured his skin. He glanced at it a moment, taking in how severe this matter was, and how serious _she_ was taking it. She stood there for only a moment longer before making her way to the sitting room, isolating herself in her chair.

Sherlock returned to his position on the sofa, watching her when she pretended not to look at him. Molly refused to leave him alone now, she couldn’t imagine what would happen if she left him alone again. He could find more drugs; he could take too much, or even more than he had taken this time. As upset as she was, it wasn’t worth it, she would blame herself if she risked that and let it happen again.

* * *

 

 

Her head was spinning as she was trying to find a reply to the text John had sent her. She felt nauseous at the thought of hiding from him what Sherlock had done. John had more experience with living with Sherlock than she did; definitely not under the same circumstances, but still. She wanted to ask what to do, because she had no idea how to approach the situation. It made her sick, made her concerned. She was barely sleeping trying to keep an eye on him and it had only been a few days.

And then there was a text from Mycroft; he had known something was going on, but Molly tried to tear away from the subject. She knew it wouldn’t help if Mycroft found out because there was nothing anyone could have done anyway. She needed to figure out a way to get him to feel better, to get him to not repeat the act. He said he wouldn’t, but he’s Sherlock, and she couldn’t always figure out what was going on in that mind of his.

As she was walking down the hall she was trying to find the right words to reply to Mycroft, staring down at her phone. Her steps halted as she felt her shoulders gripped by someone, realising that she had almost walked into Sherlock. She looked up at him and recognised his close proximity; this was much closer than he usually was.

He was looking at her to say anything, to give her some kind of confirmation of something, he didn’t even know what. It made him uncomfortable though, he didn’t like change. He felt like he had lost her after what he’d done. She stuck it through with him when it happened, made sure he was conscious, everything in that sense, but she wasn’t saying much now and it was bothering him.

He moved closer to her now, noses almost touching as he looked into her eyes. Molly breathed in a sharp breath as she let her eyes drop, trying with great difficulty to keep her gaze away from his lips, but she let them stare just a second too long.

“You almost walked into me,” he finally breathed.

“Sorry,” she replied, quickly but quietly, looking around apprehensively as she made an attempt to step away from him; he stopped her though. He kept his grip on her shoulders, trying to convince her to look back up at him, but she wouldn’t; she _couldn’t_.

She breathed in again as she felt his hand come up and linger on her cheek. He needed to know what was going on in her head; he knew he could always just deduce what someone was thinking, but not this time. Sherlock was unaware of how long this was going to take. This was Molly Hooper; she normally caved by now, normally forgave him and went on like things were normal. But this was just so different; he stared at her, hoping she would just say something else, let go of all of this. He was so focused he didn’t realise that her mouth was gravitating towards his, didn’t realise that if it happened, he may have welcomed it. He was so desperate for some kind of contact, and he was getting nothing.

She hesitated just before her lips were touching his, telling herself to stop. His gaze raked upon her mouth as he waited, completely still, his breath caught in his throat. Molly knew this wouldn’t help the situation; it would only make it worse when he pushed her away like he usually did. There was no way he’d want her; she just needed to stay out of his way and watch from a distance.

She finally stepped away from him and moved in the direction of her room, too overwhelmed.

She pressed her back up against the door and closed her eyes as she breathed in and out through her nose. Molly’s actions showed her selfless personality, but her mind and her heart were being so selfish. She was trying desperately to put together this broken man, but her heart was screaming for him, and it was breaking her. She loved him and it pained her to see him do what he did. But he would have moments, you could argue that they were out of vulnerability or that they were out of strength to fight for the old Sherlock, and she would clutch to those. She wanted him in every way and she was never going to have him. In the back of her head though, there was a thread of hope that someday she would be able to truly show her love to the man who divorces himself from feelings, but with requited ones himself.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been eight days since Sherlock’s drug incident; eight days, seven hours, and nineteen minutes. Molly had barely spoken to him in those eight days and it was unnerving. Sherlock was eating and sleeping regularly now, even if she didn’t directly ask him to; he at least owed her that.

The same thing could not be said for Molly. She would eat regularly, but she hardly slept. An hour or two here and there when she needed it, but there was a constant obligatory duty to be watchful of Sherlock and it was dragging her down. She was letting all of the stress from recent events build up, and making it worse on her mental state when she resisted getting rest.

She sat in the chair of the sitting room and averted her eyes down to her coffee whenever Sherlock glanced her way. If anyone looked at her, she would seem like she was calm, but Sherlock could see through it. Whenever she put her coffee down he could see her hands trembling, both from over-excessive amounts of caffeine and stress- the caffeine was the only thing keeping her eyes open.  

Sherlock watched her as she kept her gaze on her cup, looking at him out of the corner of her eye every so often. Her eyes would slip closed every few minutes as she continued to fight off the sleep that she needed.

Sherlock was still battling this need for some kind of contact, a presence. There was definitely a sense of a person being there since she was always by him, but it was not the same. Her very weak smiles when she noticed him staring, her quiet stillness, it was driving him insane. She tried so hard in one aspect to be there for him more than ever, and in another she had seemed to disappear.

Keeping herself upbeat for Sherlock’s sake before his incident had subconsciously kept her more positive than she could have been, but everything came hurling down on her shoulders now and Sherlock watched as it happened. He needed things to go back to how they were, he needed _her_ emotionally. He told himself he only wanted it from a distance, but that was a lie. He wanted to close the large gap that she had created when her disappointment of his drug use dazed her.

She finally stood up and made her way into the kitchen, looking a bit disoriented as she went. It had looked like she was going to do something, but she faltered into a chair.

He stood up and, walking over to the kitchen table, looked down at her sceptically. He wasn’t sure how to begin. He had been feeling awful and pushing her out, but he didn’t like the silence. He had been so annoyed before by her constant need to check up on him, to ask him questions, to casually try and make some small talk. Now that he didn’t get it, he was missing it. There was barely anything now; she watched him precariously, but her lips remained pressed together. The lump in her throat had been there permanently for days, suppressing what wanted to be said; that had wanted to come out long before Sherlock had come home with the drugs.

“Molly.”

She shook her head, “No, it’s not- I don’t-” but she bit down on her tongue.

He stared at her, still trying to find the right words, but the consulting detective didn’t have any, nothing sounded right- nothing he would be able to say to her would make it okay.

“It was foolish of me.”

“Foolish?” she spat out. She was losing her cool demeanour she had tried so hard to keep surfaced.  “I’m not sure that covers what…” but she stopped and shook her head; she couldn’t do this. This was a conversation she just couldn’t deal with. She didn’t _want_ to hold in what she was feeling anymore, but she still felt that she needed to.

They sat there in silence for a moment before she finally spoke up again and stood. “I need some air.  
 She hesitated before she continued: “Could you keep yourself from harm for five…” she paused for a moment, taking in a hard breath, “minutes… while I…” but she kept faltering. Her hand grabbed onto the edge of the table as she stood, her breathing heavy and fast. Her hands shook as she gripped the table forcefully, her body practically swaying.

Sherlock was closer to her immediately, his hand lightly gripping her elbow. His hand moved to her wrist noting her racing pulse, her rapid heartbeat as she breathed more unevenly now. “What is...” she was shaking her head again, not understanding what was going on.

“Molly, you’re having a panic attack.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, her eyes wide as she lowered herself so she was kneeling on the floor, her legs tucked under her. She braced one arm against her stomach as she leaned forward, trying to fill her lungs. “I can’t,” she said looking up at him.

He looked at her confused.

“I can’t lose it. What good am I if I’m falling apart trying to piece you back together,” she blurted out. She hadn’t meant to say it, but it just came out. She was finding it immensely difficult to control what she was saying, but she needed to say it. She had closed herself up and the build-up, in combination with the fatigue, was encouraging this reaction.

He understood now, taking in what she was saying. “Molly, it’s okay,” he tried to soothe, his eyes soft and concerned. “Just calm down, it’s alright.”

She breathed heavily, choking out sobs now and looking at the floor as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. “No, Sherlock, it’s not fucking alright. Last week I found you unconscious with a needle in your arm. How does that in any way constitute as a form of fine? You’re worth so much more than that; you have so much to go back to. But you won’t let me in, you won’t let anyone in.”

She was crying harder now and she continued to shake her head. He lifted her chin up, “Molly, _breathe_.”

She ignored his pleas of trying to get her to calm; she was nowhere near calm. “And look at me, a piece of rubbish. I’ve been trying so hard to fix you, but you won’t even let me, and I’ve failed. I thought you were improving when we went to the shops, but instead you got away from me as quick as you could.” He could hear the defeat in her voice; he felt his chest constrict as the words fell from her lips. “To get drugs- a quick fix that just made it worse. If I hadn’t come back,” her eyes were bulging as she dreaded to think what might have happened if he was left there unconscious.

Sherlock lifted her chin up so that she was looking at him, but she let her eyes slip closed; trying to gain some kind of control over her emotions- it was useless. She inhaled a hard, shaking breath, crying as she did so. “I just… I just want to sleep, but I can’t.” She sounded so lost, so defeated, and Sherlock couldn’t do anything except blame himself for putting her in that position.

Sherlock picked her up now and she was pressed against his chest, carrying her into the bedroom. The first thing she needed right now was to relax, but she needed to sleep; the extreme fatigue was further instigating her state.

He set her down on the bed and, for some reason, felt compelled to lie next to her. So he climbed in onto his slide and continued to try and calm her. “Molly,” he breathed, not knowing what else he could say to soothe her.

Her breathing seemed like it was becoming a bit lighter, but she couldn’t stop crying. She turned around so her back was facing him. She hated him seeing her like this; she closed her eyes tight as her trembling hands gripped his arm that wrapped around her side. She couldn’t handle the embarrassment of herself and the discomfort she thought she was causing him. “I’m sorry.”

“Just focus, it’s alright.”

She was quiet now, a few tears escaping down her cheeks, but her broken sobs had subsided. She was getting control of her lungs more as she settled, her eyes becoming heavy as her breath slowed and her heart rate stabilised.

As he sensed her gradual relaxing, he allowed his own heart to calm. It pained him to see that he had caused this; break her down until she was a sobbing, exhausted mess. He needed to be better for her right now. For the first time _she_ was the one breaking down and _he_ was the one pushing everything aside because that was all that mattered to him. She had done so much, and although she was hysterical, everything she had said was true.

She finally turned around to look at him again as he examined her with careful eyes, assuring himself that she was fine.

“I’m furious with you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, letting out a sigh. “Rest- you’ve barely slept.”

Her eyes closed as she continued to talk, pressing her face against his chest. “Because I’m afraid of what could happen to you again.”

He was still for a second at her closeness, but said nothing of it. “I gave you my word, Molly. I rarely make promises, but I meant it,” he replied.  

She nodded softly; sleep starting to shut down her brain as she relaxed fully in his arms.

* * *

 

Molly stirred, her eyes still closed as she realised she was still pressed up against Sherlock. She could hear his soft, slow breathing as he slept next to her. She opened her eyes and saw how peaceful he looked; it was probably the first time she had seen him like this.

She was feeling her shy self again though, looking around because she wanted to get out of the bed, but one arm was wrapped around her as he remained in his position.

She groaned internally, realising that there was no swift way out of this. She laid there for almost ten minutes before she finally just gave in and gently moved the arm that was wrapped around her, slipping out of the bed and moving quietly into the bathroom.

Sherlock had opened his eyes just as he saw Molly escaping into the bathroom. He knew there would be a conversation soon, and he had no idea what to say. He knew he was going to get reprimanded even though he had promised her he wouldn’t do it again. He deserved it; it’s not common that people come home to someone nearly overdosing.

On the other side of the door, Molly was letting the hot water hit her body; she still felt so tired and over-exerted from the anxiety attack she had had the previous night. It was odd though, Sherlock was so comforting, and she didn’t expect it. Maybe it was just a repayment from when she helped him.

* * *

 

 

Molly came out of the bathroom after showering and drying her hair to see the kettle on with two empty mugs ready to be filled once it was boiled.

She sat down in the chair next to him and he somewhat acknowledged her presence but kept his eyes glued to his laptop. She was feeling a bit uncomfortable as she fiddled with the edges of yesterday’s newspaper, trying to keep herself occupied as Sherlock read.

She figured that they would sit in silence until she broke it, like they usually did. But she looked over to him as his laptop was closed now and he was looking around a bit nervously. “You’re feeling better then?”

She was surprised at his words. “Yes, uhm- I am, thanks,” she gave a small smile as his gaze turned to her. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke up again. “I’m sorry- about last night, I mean. I kind of lost myself for a second and-”

“You’re apologising for a panic attack?” he asked, confusion on his face, “indirectly induced by me.”

“It isn’t your fault, Sherlock. I should have been more careful…” She was about to continue, but glanced down at his arm. _Great_ she thought.

He watched her frantic eyes as she pulled his arm closer to her. He didn’t retaliate though, letting her do what she needed. She pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, but to her surprise only one nicotine patch was attached to his arm and she relaxed. As she continued to stare at his arm, feeling awkward from her movement, she kept her eyes down on the patch. “And I- well- a lot of this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been trying to push you out the door.”

Within seconds of her saying that his hand was cupping her chin so she was forced to look up at him. “Molly,” he said, a pained expression on his face as her eyes met his; he was in disbelief. “Do _not_ blame yourself for what I chose to do.”

She gave a slight nod as his hand moved to cup her cheek, they were staring at each other silently and his body was closer to hers. He strangely liked the closeness between them, craving the intimacy like when she had fallen asleep in his arms. He was craving it now; it gave him some sort of comfort he hadn’t experienced before.

“I know that you promised, Sherlock,” she said, closing her eyes now to keep her thoughts straight, “but you can’t just use a quick fix to get away from everything. You risk your health enough as it is… you can’t just…”

Her words were more desperate now, trying to get him to understand. “You have people that care about you, Sherlock. And I know that everything isn’t exactly perfect, but I have hope that things will get better, and that you can return to Baker Street and work with John again.”

His eyes were soft again as he listened to her intently, not interrupting her at all. There was a strange sort of comfortable feeling she was having with him now as she grabbed his hand that was cupping her cheek and brought it down to the table, lacing her fingers with his. “ _I_ care about you, Sherlock, and I hate seeing you fall apart. If there is something, anything that I can do to help you, to make this go quicker, please just tell me.”

She bit her lip as her sentence trailed off, waiting for some kind of response. He was quiet, taking in her words as her eyes lowered away from his gaze.

She looked back up at him when he squeezed her hand and broke the silence. “I am sorry,” he began, hesitating for a moment. “Last night, you said that I won’t let anyone in, and that is because emotions are not… my area.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock; that takes time, just like everything else…”

Molly leaned in and kissed his cheek, and only pulled her head slightly back before Sherlock turned his head to face her. He was so close to her as her gaze went to his eyes and then straight down to look at his mouth.

She wanted him so bad, just as she always did. She started to lean in, their lips almost touching as the kettle started whistling and it caused her to jump back a little.

Her face turned scarlet as she immediately stood up to fetch the kettle. She sighed softly, angry at the kettle for interrupting what almost was… something? Did he want to? She pondered as she almost overflowed the mugs.

She brought them back and set one before Sherlock as he looked at her, trying to place his emotions. He was never one for feelings or sentiment, but he felt something with Molly that he had never felt before.

He looked down at his laptop and pretended to focus on whatever was on the screen. 


	6. Chapter 6

The next few weeks saw a bit of improvement, for Sherlock and for Molly.

Sherlock had admittedly faltered back to some of his common bad habits. The eating was rare and sleeping infrequent, but still better than when they had first arrived. One of the biggest improvements was the way he acted towards Molly. He barely insulted her, and although it was difficult and the conversation didn’t go very far, he tried his best to be somewhat open with her.

Molly knew he was trying, and that’s all that mattered. It made her smile to see him doing better, but she knew there was a lot he kept in. He was still worried that she would have another panic attack, still in apprehension of himself and his feelings.

It still drove him mad that Moran was out there, and that Mycroft’s men, in his opinion, were doing a terrible job at finding him. The ignorance of men of the government working under Mycroft, no matter how much training, did not have the knowledge to find someone like Moran. A person so like Moriarty who had means of trapping, manipulating, and ruining people.

Molly decided that she wasn’t going to tell Mycroft what Sherlock did. In a way, she figured that he already knew anyway; and he did, Mycroft knew everything. On the phone Mycroft would be hesitant when asking about Sherlock, almost weary that something else had happened. It was never something he would admit to though; the Holmes brothers did not let their hearts fall to their sleeves. They would not be weak, but would hide themselves behind an isolated wall.

There was nothing more that could be done anyway. He couldn’t change what he did; the bruise faded, but the memory stayed vivid in both Sherlock and Molly’s minds. Sherlock had been done with drugs a long time ago; he always felt foggy for days after. His mind would still run rampant, but lacked the sharpness of his usual precision. He knew that it was the last time though. After seeing the look on Molly’s face after he had done it, the second his vision cleared with his head in her lap, it was enough to convince him that it wouldn’t happen again.

She had also never reacted that way before. She went days barely sleeping, barely functioning- blaming herself for his mistake and so she made herself pay for it too. She was risking enough of her life and her time being there with him. He almost had an understanding now of what people felt when they saw his damaged, dysfunctional way of living. It may have explained why he was more compliant now with basic functioning needs.

He had more of a desire to sleep now anyway, or at least lay with her at night if his mind refused to let him sleep. After she had slept against him, he realised that he liked that feeling of closeness. Her distant week from him made him understand the extent of how much he needed her there for and with him, how much she was actually doing for him- it was even more than she was expected. He would never understand why she cared for him so much after everything he’s done to her, the way he’s treated her. But, it was more evident than ever as he started to understand the way the mind works in the essence of caring for others. He had always cared for those close to him as much as he would not admit, but he began to structure a room for what caring is, and why it may matter in some aspects. Molly took up a large portion of that room.

When she slept at night, she would always wake up to find Sherlock doing something different. Depending on how she was laying on him he would be… admiring wasn’t the word, but she loved the close proximity. Sometimes he would be delicately tracing shapes along her back or her shoulder; sometimes he would give feather light kisses to her head or her small fingers if they were close enough. He appreciated her more now; the same Sherlock, but kinder.

She would never mention it and they never talked about it; they went along with their day as if their comfort in each other didn’t exist. Well, Sherlock did better with it than she did. Molly couldn’t find a way to get her mind off of it. She loved it, and it made her happy to see him like this, but she couldn’t find herself to believe that cold, stern Sherlock was so gentle with her- as if she was as fragile as glass. His eyes were always soft if she woke up against him, and she could almost see a smile curved at the corners of his lips. It was so odd, so strange; Sherlock had never had interest in her. There was no way; she assumed that it was his source of comfort from being homesick. He missed John and Baker Street, and Molly had become the only familiar thing from London. So he clutched to it to hold on to the memories because he still had no idea when and if he could go home.

Or that’s what she told herself to keep from believing that he cared. Sherlock had been away for months now, and he didn’t have a choice in when this ended. She missed home- maybe not as much as he did, but she still missed it. Technically, she could go back whenever she wanted, but that would never even cross her mind.

One night he lay there, running his fingers through her hair as he watched her peaceful slumber. The pads of his fingers glided gently through her silky hair and she gave a small sigh in her sleep, pressing herself closer. She had always fallen asleep with a distance between them, but it wouldn’t take long before she unconsciously gravitated toward him, and he always knew it was coming. It overwhelmed him to feel the way that he did, and he still didn’t understand what it actually _was_ that he was experiencing.

_I don’t have friends. I’ve only got one._

That wasn’t necessarily the whole truth anymore. What was Molly to him anyway? Colleague? No- that sounded absolutely wrong now- it was too professional, much too formal for what he had shared with her. There was a growing intimacy between them; not in a sexual way, but he was starting to get to know her. She would try to help him when he attempted to be open with her by explaining things about her past that related to what he was trying to say and what she felt at the time. He had been uncomfortable and distant about it at first, but it got easier as she did it more. She wanted him to feel more comfortable, to feel better, and to abandon this feeling of being completely trapped. She tried her hardest to do so, which he somehow recognized.

When Sherlock noticed a piece of hair fall into Molly’s face, he moved his hand to push it out of the way. He heard her release a small breath and knew that he had stirred her, so he dropped his hand to his side, waiting for her to fall back to sleep as she usually would.

Instead though, she rubbed one of her eyes and turned her head to look up at Sherlock. She was always surprised even though this became routine now. She felt a bit shy as she moved her head away from his chest and back on to her pillow. The cloth felt cold against her skin, and surprisingly did not feel as comfortable as his hard muscled chest, making her shiver.

She lay on her side, both of them quiet as she admired him in the moonlit room. He was pale, especially in this light as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes open. He never felt the need to pretend that he was asleep; she knew that he didn’t very often. She watched as his chest calmly rose and fell to match his breathing pattern. He was so beautiful and all her body was telling her was to gravitate back towards him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Finally Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing Molly with his head at the edge of his pillow. He stared at her as he had moved himself closer watching her nervousness get the best of her. He heard a quiet breath sneak out from between her slightly parted lips, and it fascinated him to see the lapsed time of her pupils dilating. By the time his face was a few inches from hers, they were blown black; only tiny rims of the deep brown chocolate in her eyes remained.

His hand had already moved so that two fingers gently rested against her pulse, a slight pressure from the side of his finger against her jaw, her heart beat out of control. She didn’t even notice the dilation of his eyes, but if her fingers had touched his pulse, or even his chest, she would have felt the rapid heartbeat. He was much better at hiding it than she was.

She saw the corner of his lips turn up into a smirk as he observed her and immediately realised she was staring at his mouth. In a way, this was his form of teasing her. It was not the first time he moved close to her and it made her squirm every time.

She inhaled though, and a determined look came upon her as she edged her face just a little bit closer to his, challenging him. If she rounded, her mouth was just an inch away from his. He didn’t budge though; he wanted to but was hesitating. His eyes remained intent on her lips.

Molly could only handle her position for a minute or two before she went to move away, her head beginning to move further back on the pillow. Something stopped her though; she immediately felt his fingers leave her pulse to cup her whole cheek, a gentle tug that demanded that she remain close to him.

She wanted to lean further into his touch, but her head swam; the scent of him invigorating. “Sherlock,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t… understand,” he said, struggling with his words- they sounded completely raw coming from his throat. “This _feeling_ that I have.”

“What? Feeling for what?” she said, her attention full on his eyes now, trying to understand what he meant.

His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. “This,” he said as he let the grip of his hand tighten just a bit on her face, still delicate against Molly’s skin. His thumb grazed delicately over her cheekbone as he continued to speak. His deep, baritone voice encompassed her as he spoke: “I haven’t felt this before. Caring, sentiment- whatever emotional word you prefer to call it.”

Then it finally clicked in her head. Oh. _Oh_. Oh shit. Was he saying that he cared about her? She must have been misinterpreting somehow.  Her mouth parted as if she was going to speak, but she couldn’t find any words; there was no way that he meant that he felt sentiment, not for her. She didn’t know how else to interpret it though. She didn’t move; she let her stare fall down to his lips again as she bit down on her own, desperately wanting to believe his words.

Sherlock only saw disbelief in her eyes as he attempted to confess. She understood what he was saying, but thought it impossible; he nodded at her to try and disprove her.

He finally closed the painful distance between them and let his lips find hers. He heard her gasp inwardly, and in the next second she was dedicated to the soft lips that made her lose herself. Immediately she let loose of the desperate need for him that she had tried her best to hide away for so long. She had wanted him since the moment she met him and he had captured her heart and her mouth, silencing the constriction in her chest that she always had when near him.

Sherlock had been so gentle, kissing her completely adequate sized mouth (that opinion had changed rather quickly) over and over as he sank into the feeling he had fought off. When he went to pull away, she felt something surge through her that refused to be parted from what she had wanted, what she _needed_. “Sherlock,” she whispered quietly as she moved her lips to his again, quickly taking control of the situation as her body moved closer to his.

She let her tongue slide along his lower lip as a tiny groan parted his mouth, allowing her access as she let her open-mouthed kisses explore him. He wrapped an arm around her waist as he let his mind spin, hormones surging through his body that yearned for her.

Molly fit perfectly against him-like she had belonged there- and all he could think about was her; her lips, her tongue, the way that she gasped, allowing him to take in that precious sound that made him want her more. Everything else was silenced from his mind completely as her hip bones pressed against his. This deep, intimate feeling overwhelmed him as he broke away from her mouth, panting heavily as he pressed his forehead to hers.

She pulled a hand up to cup his cheek now, her eyes darting to his as she looked for what she feared; she worried that he had regretted what he started. She saw no remorse, and no rejection came. He saw the anxiousness in her eyes as she searched. She saw that familiar smirk return to his slightly glistening lips as he returned his mouth to hers; the kiss was filled with more passion than she could have imagined. She had never felt such intensity for someone over a kiss, over the way that _he_ kissed her, but no one else seemed to matter as she had never in her life felt for someone the way that she did for Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock’s eyes fell open to the sound of ruffling in the kitchen. He turned to find the other side of the bed empty, nostalgia hitting him as he remembered what happened the previous night.

He had let his feelings come forward, confessed to Molly things he never thought he would to anyone. Sentiment was always weak, but Sherlock felt _better_ the closer he became with Molly. He would have crumbled completely if it hadn’t been for her. He had been craving more contact with her the entire time they had been here, and it was only now that he was giving in to it. It was with Molly that he had found some sort of solace when he had felt like his life had actually ended that day at Bart’s.

He had felt for her longer than this, but was able to suppress it better before. All of this time with her allowed proof to settle in, to prove that he really did need Molly in more ways that he originally thought.

This wasn’t over though, all of this muddled mess with Moran, and he didn’t forget it. It still haunted him, but Molly enabled his mind to rest. Even if it was only for a few fleeting moments, she gave him what he craved. He would be lying though to say that was the only reason he felt for her.

He got out of bed and walked into the sitting room, fashioning a dressing gown that looked just like his favourite blue one at home as he went to sit down on the sofa. Molly had bought it for him when she had went shopping, hoping that it would make him a little less homesick. The thoughtful Molly was right; it helped but he didn’t confess that.

She brought over a plate of food to him without saying anything, feeling like a nervous schoolgirl. She tried to figure out if what had happened the previous night was just a dream or if it was real. She bit her lip thinking about the way his mouth had captured hers, the way his hands felt against her skin, and she wanted more of it.

Sherlock noticed her staring at him and lost in thought from the corner of his eye. When he realised her eyes were dilated he let out a soft chuckle, breaking Molly from her daydream. She cleared her throat as she picked up her plate, finally beginning to eat her food when she realised that he had already finished his. She was happy that she convinced him somehow to eat more.

He was twisting his phone in his hand, clearly waiting for something. Mycroft had neither texted Sherlock nor called Molly recently. As much as Sherlock was glad about last night, they were here to eliminate Moran so he could go home. He had been away from London for a while now, and he had been hiding even longer. He often remembered that it was not only him who was pulled away from his home in the midst of this mess. Molly had a brilliant mind, and instead of utilizing it to examine bodies in a morgue, she was sitting in a flat in France, waiting with him.

“Nothing from Mycroft yet?” Molly finally spoke as she put her plate down on the coffee table.

“No,” he said, his pout almost resembling that of a child’s. She didn’t blame him; he was frustrated, anxious to go home. He had been reckless about all of this just a few weeks ago, but there had been improvement and it didn’t seem as though it was going to happen again. It meant that her being there was doing _something_.

Sherlock sighed as he lay down now, throwing the phone to the table before resting his head in Molly’s lap. He closed his eyes as he let his legs drape over the arm of the other side of the sofa.

Under his frustration of Moran she saw pure boredom. Molly couldn’t wait for the day where they were at home and his eyes blazed with curiosity from a new case. She wanted to see him feel alive again.

“Soon…” she said softly, trying to soothe him. Her finger traced around the edge of his ear and down his jaw as she admired the structure of his beautiful face. She hesitated now as she wanted to move her finger to graze across his lips, but she was still unsure of last night. She let her hand fall into her lap as she let him remain comfortable in his spot.

As he felt her hand drop to her side, he opened his eyes to look up at her to see her smiling down at him. He sat up for a second, lifting her legs up and forcing her to move into a position so that she was lying on the sofa next to him. Her back was pressed up against the back of the couch as she lay on her side, Sherlock turning so that he was facing her now.

Molly had noticed before when he was unhappy, and she still noticed it. He was looking down at each of their hands next to each other, comparing the protrusion of his knuckles compared to hers. She could see the sadness in him, the anxiousness, and she wished she could do more for him (Sherlock would have argued that she was doing _too_ much, but she felt otherwise).

“You look sad,” she remarked, breaking his concentration from her hand and up to her face. This was yet another time where he had to force himself to try and be more open, which was still difficult for him. He didn’t know what to say, so he only gave a nod in reply, his finger trailing softly over her knuckles.

She waited patiently in silence. If he didn’t want to talk about it, she would leave it alone. She only wanted to try and make him feel better.

“I am still stuck, and unable to return to London. Mycroft’s men are incapable, and all I have done is sit here. It’s meaningless…” he said as he finally looked away from her, “pointless.” The end of his sentence turned into a sigh.

“When you really want something, Sherlock, it’s always worth the wait.” She had meant it in more than one sense; not just for him, but for herself. She let her eyes flicker momentarily to his mouth and then back up to his eyes.

“There is a chance that it will be too dangerous for me to return at all.” His face was pensive now, grave. But that was one option, one theory. He stared into the cushion now as he spoke. “You will have no choice but to return to London eventually.”

“Sherlock,” she said, her voice a bit higher as she spoke. When he looked up at her again, her eyes were glassy. She didn’t want to think about going home without knowing he was safe to go too. The last thing she wanted was to return, not ever be able to see him. Even if things went back to their normal relationship when they returned, she couldn’t just have him… gone. “You are not always required to think of everything in the logical sense, but sometimes dwelling on something that could happen… it just- it doesn’t help. I know that it’s frustrating, and I know you’ve been waiting forever, but- _I_ have all the hope in the world that you will figure out a way to get home and be safe. Make sure that everyone else is safe; I believe in you and I always have. Even if you don’t believe it, I do.”

“I lo-” she cut herself off immediately, closing her eyes to recompose herself. “I care- about you, and I won’t think that you won’t be able to come home.” Her voice was practically a whisper now. “I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try to convince you to believe in yourself as much as I do.”

She was afraid, terrified at the thought of him not coming home. She felt sad herself, but immediately upon finishing her sentence, she let a smile shine from her face. She wanted to be confident for him if he wouldn’t be for himself.

This time, he didn’t note how quickly her eyes dilated or how quick her heart was beating (which was practically out of her chest). Instead, he looked at her carefully, and recognised the fear in her eyes the second he had mentioned his chances of not coming home. She was so loyal, so dedicated, and he had done nothing to deserve it.

It was still new trying to understand caring for someone in this way, and her reactions gave a wordless explanation. He brought his hand up to cup her chin, letting his thumb graze over her lip as she pressed a small kiss to it. As his hand moved up to cup her face, she closed her eyes, letting herself rest against his warm hand. She looked calmed from his touch now as she lay there silent, contentedly.

In that moment when Sherlock’s hand touched her face so gently, she knew with her whole heart that last night was, in fact, real. Clear, sharp, and true, and no one could take that away from her. She wanted nothing more than to lay like this with him for an eternity.

She moved her mouth against his as he wrapped his arm around her side, pulling her closer against him. Molly let out a whine as Sherlock’s tongue snaked her lips apart, only to give her passionate kisses that made her mind melt. He bit at her lower lip, enjoying the small mewls escaping from her with every action he experimented.

Her pleasure became his pleasure as she moved her mouth down to kiss along his neck. Her gentle, soft hands found their way under the hem of his shirt, feeling his sculpted body. She found herself wanting him more as he granted her more access.

Sherlock’s skin tingled in a satisfying sort of way at Molly’s touch beneath the fabric, the chaos of hormones and emotions overwhelming him. He had really never experienced anything like this before, not with this much intensity. Not even in his uni years when he experimented a few times did he feel this way, react this way. He knew that he would need her one day, but now he _wanted_ her.

Molly squeaked as her body was under Sherlock’s now, a pleasured groan escaping from his lips as their hips grazed against each other harder than before. Molly pulled her hands out from beneath his shirt and wrapped them around his neck. Sherlock had one hand braced against the cushion next to her head to keep himself steady above her, but his other refused to leave her skin. His fingers delicately stroked along the side of her jaw and she leaned into the touch, the other side of her neck fully exposed to him. He let his lips give her the attention she seeked, pleasuring every inch of her delicate skin around her collarbone, leaving a flushed colour behind.

He then began to nip and bite, his fingers leaving her face to trail down and cup one of her breasts. He felt her arms slide away from his neck as they cupped his face, nudging him to move his mouth back to hers. He complied, but Molly took over in the kiss. Her tongue slid around, she nipped at him; she was losing herself in the feeling against his lips and she would never get enough of the taste of him.

They both broke away from the kiss as Sherlock buried his face in her hair, his nose nudging and nuzzling the side of her neck. Molly let her head rest against the side of Sherlock’s, her fingers coming up to delicately tousle the curls at the nape of his neck.

After a quiet moment, he lifted his head so he could look at her. Molly left her fingers entangled in his hair as she waited for him to make a next move. He let his lips drift back to hers. Sherlock let one hand slide down to the hem of her shirt, with all intentions of letting his hands explore under the fabric, to push the shirt up and pull it off her, but the moment was broken by a vibration against the coffee table. They both looked over to Sherlock’s phone to see the screen lit up and Mycroft’s name across it.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock walked around by himself, looking at things, but not really seeing them. He let his mind wander to places far off as he read Mycroft’s words repeatedly in his head.

_Moran is within a 5 mile radius of you._

As much as he hated his brother, he was secretly grateful for all that he was doing, even if they weren’t doing a good job. As cold and as calculating as the Holmes’ boys were known to be, Mycroft loved Sherlock; he’d always cared for him, he just showed it in a different way. It was not something that others understood, but Mycroft took the role of big brother while Sherlock let his stern annoyance continue to tell Mycroft he resented him.

He was on high alert, out searching, looking for anything that could lead him in the right direction. This would all be over soon, but Sherlock was not stupid to think that this would not get a lot worse before it got better. He rearranged through his mind palace, cataloguing the information he had on Moran differently, piecing it together.

As Sherlock was walking around the market, Molly was having difficulty as she tried to figure out what to get, distracted by what was going through her head. She thought of what Sherlock had said, but she also thought of the danger that would soon come. She would be there for him, she would do anything that he asked of her- of course she would, and that’s how she’s always been.

She knew there was danger for her, but it made her more nervous to think of the danger for him. This was all about him, it always had been, and if Moran was this close, he knew Sherlock was here, and he knew Sherlock was after Moran just as much as Moran was after him.

Molly was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t realised that there was someone within her personal space, creeping behind her, until he spoke, barely in an audible whisper. “You ungrateful bitch; I save your life and you won’t even have a coffee with me.”

She froze dead, not knowing how to respond. What to do or what to say. She wished Sherlock had not walked away now, terrified of what was going to happen. She knew it was the man she had run into on more than one occasion, why was he still following her?

He gripped her wrist tightly, squeezing enough so that the pain made her want to scream. “Make a sound and you put everyone in danger here, Miss Hooper,” he hissed. “And please do think of your beloved Sherlock.”

Molly’s eyes widened, her teeth gritting, but she was stock still; everything clicked now as his words rang through her ears. All was falling into place, the man that was making himself known, wanting to be seen. Letting people see him was him making his move. It was on the person unexpected; Molly had never had anything to do directly with this, but wouldn’t that make her the more obvious choice? She did save Sherlock, after all.

“Now,” he said, pulling her into him. It looked as if they were having a private conversation. Anyone else looking at them would think they were just a couple. “You’d like Sherlock safe, wouldn’t you?” he breathed on the back of her neck, moving his face closer to her ear.

She nodded compliantly, still not moving her head as he slipped a phone into her pocket. “If I find out you’ve said a word to him, he’s dead, you’re dead; you will not ruin this for me. You will keep this phone by you at your side, and Sherlock will not know that you have it. You will wait for my instructions.”

He was out of her sight before she even looked up, her hand immediately rubbing her sore wrist. She stood there staring at the tea, pretending to be intent on finding one as she processed what had happened.

It was Moran, she knew from the second he had addressed her last name who he was. She didn’t know what she was about to do, but she knew this was going to be bad. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she was going to hide this from Sherlock; he noticed everything, but it was just going to require her best efforts.

Sherlock rounded the corner to see Molly rubbing her wrist with a strained look on her face. He narrowed his eyes as he watched, but when her hand dropped down to her side and she looked back up (mechanically) to the tea, he disregarded it.

He came up close behind her before speaking. They were definitely on a closer level now, and Sherlock felt something different with her; he liked the physical contact when he struggled with the emotional. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ready?”

Molly jumped, a gasp escaping her lips. It was only loud enough for Sherlock to hear, but full-fledged panic tensed throughout her body from his sudden movement.

She exhaled before looking up to him. “What? Yeah, all set,” she said, grabbing whatever tea her eyes fixed on first. “Sorry, you startled me.”

 _Jesus, Molly_ she said to herself. This was not a good start to hiding things from Sherlock. She walked ahead before he could say anything else, trying to search for the checkout counter.

Sherlock’s stride put him next to her quickly and he looked at her sceptically, brushing it aside again. He took it in as a mental note though; the only logical thing that would make her afraid was Mycroft’s text, so he figured that was what bothered her. They were out in the open, and Moran was within a five mile radius, so what else would it be?

* * *

 

Molly stood up from the bed and began pacing back and forth. After they had come back from the grocery store, she was quick to take a shower. It was the best place to clear her head.

She had taken her time in the shower and getting dressed afterwards. She saw tints of a bruise that was forming on her skin from Moran; lovely. She ruffled through her coat sitting on the bed and took the phone out; the one he had given her. She flashed the screen on, but there was nothing, no message yet. She had no idea how long it would be, but as the minutes passed, they dragged heavily.

As she examined the case around the phone she realised it looked identical to her own. The only difference in the phone was when she pressed the button to view the screen. Unless Sherlock was fumbling with her phone, he wouldn’t be able to tell that it was different.

She had to do this though. She had even told Sherlock herself that if she could help in any way, she would do it. Molly had a chance to protect him, and she was going to do her best. He was important; London needs him back, his friends need him back. She let out a small sigh as she locked the phone and put it safely in her pocket.

Molly walked into the sitting room to find Sherlock lying across the sofa, his dressing gown wrapped around him. His head lay back against the arm of the sofa, his eyes closed as his head faced the ceiling. He didn’t even notice Molly come in as he was already lost, detached from the room totally. Molly sat down quietly in a chair and skimmed through a book, her mind not registering any words her eyes glazed over.

There was more danger now, for him and for Molly. Sherlock would be damned if anything were to erase everything he’s been working for since he faked his death. It was beginning to overwhelm him even more than before. He was so close, yet so far. Every time he took a step forward, there was nothing else that he could do from that point. It wasn’t even him investigating. He was tired of waiting; he wanted to just go and finish this now, but he didn’t know where Moran was. He wouldn’t risk further opportunity unless his information was precise.

He was becoming tired of this; it wasn’t a game anymore as much as both Moriarty and Moran tried to make it that way. It wasn’t fun, but it was for them; ruining his life as it continued to end, dragging every day to make sure that he knew it wasn’t ending with that day at Bart’s. No, Moriarty would have lost the game that way. Of course he had a backup plan.

Molly helped of course, as always, but at this point there was only so much that she could do. He wasn’t going to put her in any immediate danger. She mattered too much now; he had lost everything and everyone, currently, and she was the only one left. She put with him at a low he hadn’t been at it in a long time; she pulled him up out of that state and helped him recover. He could function now, and for some reason, he could care and feel more so than ever before. It felt raw, but he was in constant apprehension that it would be distracting him, which was overbearing.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes- it had been almost an hour. He had realised halfway through the hour that she was there and noticed her nervous demeanour.  He spoke without turning his head to her, continuing to stare up at the ceiling. “You’re not reading.”

Molly looked up from her book and at him. She let the book fall down into her lap and gave a sigh. “I’m just… worried is all.” Well, that wasn’t lying. She really was worried; he just didn’t know the extent of what.

But as she rested her hand on top of the book, he saw the bruising around her wrist; it was darkening. His eyebrow rose as he looked it at. She knew that he saw it, so she waited, biting down on her lip. She was reprimanding herself in her head, deeply. She was going to fuck this up, he was going to know, and he was going to get hurt.

“It’s nothing,” she continued.

“If I were the one hurt you would be angry with me for not telling you,” he said matter-of-factly. He was starting to catch on to this, learning quickly about whatever it was their relationship currently was. He was right though, Molly would’ve done the same thing on the other side of the situation. “Which, you also did not tell me about when you got attacked.”

She hadn’t even mentioned it that far, but he deduced, of course it was enough to figure that out. She was being like him; it wasn’t in the same context, but she was being hypocritical, which Molly knew wasn’t very fair. But she couldn’t necessarily _be_ fair. She was doing it for a reason and she couldn’t tell him why. She knew if he were on the other side of this he would understand, but he couldn’t be.

Molly took a deep breath before running her hands down her face. She went over and sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sherlock, I-” she began as she exhaled. He sat there and he waited. He watched her trying to find the words and it made him feel less inferior in the one place he did feel it. This was completely new; he never approached anything lightly unless it was boring.

Molly’s phone buzzed in her back pocket and she froze completely. She knew it was not her normal phone. It was the one Moran had given her.


	9. Chapter 9

_I wonder what would happen to Sherlock, and to you, if you were to tell him how you got that nice bruise on your wrist._

The text she had read over and over. Molly and Sherlock’s conversation hadn’t continued after her phone buzzed. She had to be serious, but she didn’t want things uncomfortable with Sherlock. She would give him as much as she could without giving anything away.

Molly walked out of the bathroom and curled up next to Sherlock. He was lying there quietly, his eyes closed, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping. She brought her hand up so it rested on the side of his neck, the tips of her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He opened his eyes and looked to her, his expression neutral as he remained quiet.

He hadn’t been angry at her; he had only observed the situation, trying to figure it out from another perspective. He could see that she felt guilty, for much different reasons than he believed. She looked sad though.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She nudged her nose against his neck. Even if she felt that she was being his comfort, that things would probably change when they returned to London, she was different with him. She felt comfortable and a stronger need for contact.

“You were right, and I’m not being fair.” As her face was hidden from him, she closed her eyes, trying to push back tears. She wanted this over; she just wanted to know what she needed to do to help Sherlock, to get Moran away from him.

After a minute she pulled her face away and she sat up. “I hadn’t mentioned it because right after that happened, I found you on the bathroom floor. I don’t know how I could’ve thought my bruising more important than regaining your consciousness. And I was just so angry…” she sighed. They had both been through too much- they deserved to go home.

“Some guy tried to mug me. He grabbed me from an alleyway and bashed me up against a wall. He… he had me at knifepoint,” her voice broke for a second and Sherlock watched her uneasiness as she explained. “But… it’s not- he didn’t take anything from me. Someone saw what was happening and they helped me… and then I came home to find you and you know the rest.” She knew who that someone was now, but she had to try her best to pretend she didn’t.

Sherlock nodded as he had sat up and watched her as she spoke. He didn’t know what to say because there wasn’t really anything else to say. He felt guilty that he had dragged her into this; that he hadn’t been there to protect her. She was so busy trying to protect him that he didn’t see it. That she was going through all of this for him and he’d never done a thing to deserve her loyalty. He nudged his nose against her temple, his eyes closed as he tried to comfort her in some way.

He didn’t ask about the second part. He recognized that it would’ve upset her further, but he didn’t understand how she had gotten hurt. Sherlock hadn’t been away from her for long and they were in the same building. Would he have noticed?

Molly leaned into him now, feeling morose after relaying her story. She hadn’t talked about it; honestly, she hadn’t even really dealt with it. She felt strange with Sherlock now; he was so different towards her, so gentle. She never thought it would be like this and he was actually doing well at comforting her. She wondered if this was just because he needed her or if his feelings were as strong as she felt they were.

Sherlock placed a kiss on her forehead just before Molly felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

A sob erupted from her throat. “It isn’t _fair_.” He believed it to be from her story; from her nostalgia remembering a past traumatic event, but her cry was because of Moran. No text from him was ever going to be anything good. She was in apprehension now. She hadn’t given anything away; she hadn’t done anything Moran asked her not to do.

* * *

 

Molly hugged her arms around herself as she stared out the window, contemplating. She let out a quiet sigh as she tried to figure out what she was going to do and how she was going to do it.

_Leave tomorrow. Make an excuse that you have to leave, lie, I don’t care. Once you have exited the flat I will give you a location. If he can take something away from me, I will most certainly take something away from him._

_Cheers! Looking so forward to seeing you!_

Moran was going to hurt her, and he was probably going to kill her. If she was going to keep Sherlock safe, she had to follow Moran’s requests until she had the opportunity to inform Mycroft. If she could keep Moran distracted on her, Mycroft could get Sherlock away somewhere safe. It would put his going home off again, but Moran knew everything; he had the upper hand on Sherlock, and Molly couldn’t stand there and let him be defeated. She needed him to be alive, needed him safe in order to be at any sort of peace.

Sherlock had risked his life, and temporarily destroyed it to save his friends. Molly loved him more than she could imagine loving anyone, so she felt she needed to do this.

If she followed through with everything Moran had planned without informing Mycroft, he would kill her, and then he would kill Sherlock. If Sherlock went home, he had the chance to save other people, to put more people to justice than she ever could. And he was a good man, a great one; he deserved his old life back. Molly told herself this over and over to justify the risk she was about to put herself in.

Molly had made sure earlier that day, soon after she had made her decision, to ring her mum and brother. It may have been the last time she got to talk to them.

When she felt Sherlock’s eyes set upon her back, she took one last look out the window, exhaling calmly but sombrely. When she turned around to face him she had a smile on her face. This was the last full day she could spend with Sherlock and she wasn’t going to spend it crying.

Although Molly let her face show with a smile, her eyes deceived her. As much as she tried, her eyes would not meet the happy persona she tried to give off. Sherlock watched, trying to deduce what was upsetting her, but could not think of what it would be.

They spent the day out doing things, looking at shops. Molly tried to keep herself close by Sherlock, but she needed a distraction. All she could think of was tomorrow, but she didn’t want to spend it like that; she didn’t want to dwell. She tried her best to push it out and have a good day with Sherlock.

But as the day continued, Molly struggled to try and keep her sadness below the surface. Whenever Sherlock would get distracted by Mycroft’s text, he would always look up to see Molly looking off somewhere distant. She looked sad, morose; she had been quieter than usual that day.

Sherlock could only be glad that this would soon be coming to a close. He would never understand why she stuck it through for so long, but his affection for her grew stronger with it. Everyone perceived her to be so weak when she was strong, evidently stronger than him, seeing his past behaviour. Maybe that’s why he seemed to allow himself to show his caring for her; she was the most sentimental person he knew, but that was the part that made her strong. It was so contradictory to everything he told himself in that area.

Molly looked down to see that Sherlock’s hand had found hers and was holding her tight. Even though she was looking down, Sherlock saw a real smile light up her face. She squeezed his hand tight as she continued along with him, trying to look for something else to keep herself distracted. She didn’t know how she was going to get herself to leave.

* * *

 

When they were in bed that night, Molly knew she was not going to sleep. She didn’t want to waste any time sleeping. She cuddled herself up against Sherlock, content as she could be; she would not have asked to be anywhere better.

Molly lost herself in thought for a moment as Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair. As much as justification can calm you, it doesn’t have the power to relieve the melancholy. How was she even going to leave tomorrow? Sherlock knows that Molly wouldn’t just get tired of him. She needed to present it in a way that wasn’t just lies. Sherlock would see through that even if Molly wasn’t a terrible liar.

_You will have no choice but to return to London eventually_

When Molly looked up to Sherlock, his eyes were closed and his chest calmly rose and fell. It wasn’t until then that she felt panic rising and constricting her chest. She felt more alone that she ever could be. She didn’t want him to sleep; he never did, and it was probably selfish of her to not want him to if he needed it. But she couldn’t bear laying there on her own all night; she needed him one last time.

She reached her hand up to cup his face and brought her lips to his to give him one chaste kiss. It stirred him; he had been on the edge of consciousness when he felt her against him. He opened his eyes to see Molly’s staring into his. She looked frightened, anxious- just terribly afraid.

“Molly, what is the matter?” he finally asked, his eyes were narrowed in concern as he searched her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I should just let you sleep…” she trailed off. He still watched her though, waiting for an answer. She felt weak and she hated that she was about to be needy and whiney to Sherlock. After all, she was the one that was supposed to be helping him- and after tonight she would be.

“I’m homesick… and lonely,” she nudged her forehead against his but kept her eyes closed. It wasn’t lying when she said that was part of her reason for being sad. Although living with Sherlock felt like home, she would have loved to visit her work, her flat, and her friends for a last time.

Sherlock watched her expression turn sad, showing an unprotected visage. Some of it had been held back, but now that she gave him a reason, she could let it show. He could have refuted her statement of loneliness because he was right there for her, but sleeping put him in a different state than her. There was no one else in Molly’s life that would understand loneliness better than Sherlock. He had been for a long time before meeting John, and he felt like that for a while after faking his death. It was only after Molly helped him through the worst part that he realised he wasn’t so lonely when with her.

He would stay awake with her then; he slept rarely anyway and another night wouldn’t hurt. They laid there quietly for a while and every so often Molly would lean forward and give him small kisses. He recognised her neediness, but was not annoyed as anyone would have expected him to be. He was incredibly homesick, so he found comfort in it too.

He watched her carefully though, her eyes were in a constant state of worry. Molly finally broke the comfortable silence in the room. “Tell me about your favourite cases with John,” she asked. She wanted to see his eyes get a little bit brighter. She knew that they would when she saw Sherlock recalling deductions.

Sherlock found it was easier for him to talk about his cases; it was something to think about that reminded him of home that didn’t have to do with his fall. Molly listened carefully and she was right; he enjoyed talking about them.

He told her about a few of them and Molly seemed content enough for him to be done. His body was tired and his mind tired of talking, so he lay there with her silently again as she traced her fingers along his arms, along his face, collarbone.

When he fell asleep the second time, she sighed, and the constriction returned to her chest; she didn’t wake him this time. She needed time to gather herself, pack up her things, and prepare herself to be convincing. Their conversation from tonight would reinforce it anyway.

When she knew Sherlock was fully asleep she gave herself a few minutes to cry silently before getting out of the bed.


End file.
